Not my Story to tell
by jasmine-brown
Summary: A well written author gets a ride of his life when he hits the 'wall', and going along with the advice of his brother, tries to climb over it, little does he know that all his questions, all his wonderings, will be answered with just a little trip down a rabbit hole...


**a/n. im just bashing this out there, its sort of a spin on alice in wonderland, possibly like none that you have never read before. so keep minds open and review so i know if peeps like it. (and that i can continue writing it)**

**Chapter 1**

"Students of the graduating class of 2012," Mr. Russell said, "It has honestly been an excellent five years. You are all now, your own people. Congratulations to you all!"

The usual hat throwing did not commence as of last year, no one could find their hats after they had their brief trip in the sky. So the graduating class of St. Ethelbert's settled for throwing large, cold water balloons at the unsuspecting teachers. All of this was to get revenge on them. Who wouldn't after the five years of hell they put the graduates through?

They all laughed it off; they couldn't give out detentions to those students anymore.

...

The Author stopped writing. He sat back in his black leather chair that surfaced from under his pearl white desk when it was needed. He pulled his hand through his hair of brown hues, pausing slightly at his semi-tanned neck. His right hand reached up to push his green glasses up his nose. That paused also at its destination. There was a problem. A problem so gigantic that he simply could not carry on, no matter how hard he could try. All writers hit this stage at one point or another in their lives.

It was the wall. The tallest wall known to any writer. _The _Wall. The monstrosity of bricks and cement that barely had any foot holdings. Most writers manage to climb over this wall quite easily.

This Author, however, was not 'most'.

Being that as it may, he stopped with his pen that is so much mightier than any sword as it pierced hearts with its ink. He was stuck. Completely stuck in the writers' mud in front of The Wall.

The reason was that this was not his story to tell. He couldn't muster up the right words, the right passion for this story for it to unfold into its own technicolor world.

He told himself that he would not let any reason to get in the way of any writing that he would do. This reason was different. The Authors wife, Alice, was the origin of the story. He didn't want his wife to be exploited in the public eye. The Author placed his sea green glasses and gently pushed them away on his paper covered desk, he glanced at the clock. Ten past four. School run time.

The Author reluctantly got out of his chair and walked through the immaculately covered floor towards the hall. He graciously reached for his coat while putting on his brown mud covered shoes. He fumbled around the draw for the house keys. He found his prize, placed them in his pocket then went out the large cottage enterance.

The Author waltzed down the driveway in a fashion that would be classed as childish. He always stepped on the round stones that were placed there; he would always jump in the endless puddles that were scattered on his trek. He would always be tempted to roll like a wheel down the steep hill that was between him and the place of crushing spirits.

School to the rest of the world.

He fought the urge to roll down so instead he ran, compromising on the roll by falling over his feet half way down. The parents of the other children thought that his profession was not worth it, that his children have a hard time because their father was always writing, or brainstorming. Some even had the nerve to think that he was drunk or high on some ridiculous drug.

The absolute nerve of some people, the Author thought as he overheard snippets of people's conversations.

_'He should care for his kids more' _

_'He spends all his time in that office of his' _

_'He hasn't published a new book in two years; I think he's losing his touch'_

The last snippet came from his one and only fan within the village radius, Eric Hatter. He was the only one crazy enough to actually care about the Author, it does help that Eric was in fact his brother. Eric had a habit to move with his creative sibling when he did. They always stuck together, watching each other's backs like brothers should. They may have had their ups and downs in their childhood, what with Eric being put up for adoption at birth.

It was a complicated beginning, the one of the Hatters twins, they never knew of on another until Alice came into the Authors' life. They grew up in two completely different families, with completely different backgrounds and so they ended up two extremely different people doing two very different careers. Eric was a comedian, the one of sorts that are funny enough to have gigs here, there and everywhere but not the type to get extremely well know, like McIntyre or Howard. He was just good at what he does.

"Hello, my crazismatic brother." The Author greeted his kin.

"'Crazismatic'? Has there been a newly formed dictionary with the millions of words you made up? If not I sense a best-seller coming along" Eric rebounded. He spread his finger above his black haired head.

"I can see it know, 'ef-feg-led is not a word Ms. Marshall,' said the teacher 'yes it is' shouted the girl pulling out her 'Hatters Guide to Weird and Wonderful Words.'"

This fantasy ended abruptly when the Author whacked his brother on the head with a large, thick, scrap-paper made note book.

"_And_ you carry that book around?" Eric grabbed the book with purpose. He opened it and brushed his eager eyes over the unseen pages.

"Still? I thought you filled it up already, being the amazing author that you are. It should be filled page to page with ideas, _adventures_ to be had and to be discovered."

"It's true; I have filled the book up." The Author stated, snatching back his precious book filled with his dreams. "This is Ideas mark 7."

He held his book close to his chest; no one was allowed to look at it except himself. Reasons being that there were ideas in there that where to shameful to see the light of day, the plots were just simply horrible; saving the day, happily ever afters' without catches, saving the world and the sorts, they were just too predictable, not mad enough. He had been having writers block for a while so he narrowed it all down to that.

The school bell rang out then, sounding all around the small town for all to hear. The Author jumped inside, for now is the time for his two delightfully mad children to come out and play. The whispers of the town where completely wrong as he did spend at least four to five hours of his day just playing with them. Then another two reading them one of his earlier works that didn't reach publication. They enjoyed that time, Sally and Michael did, as it let their imaginations run wild with impossible dreams, creating impossible words that they would tell their friends the next day.

His children came running out of their classrooms, ignoring the warnings from the teacher, racing each other home, the Author always competed in this race giving his children a head start. Eric sometimes joined them with his adopted child, Francy, when they came round for tea. Today was one of those days.

"Have you got another work in progress?" Eric asked casually

"I do, Eric, but I have hit it." The Author said regretfully

Eric pulled his brother to a stop.

"It? As in, the _It_?" the Author nodded.

"Well, you are just going to have to take a break, go to the nearest country park and sit under an old oak tree with gnarled roots showing through the earth that it is residing in."

The Author looked at Eric. He rarely ever uses so many descriptive words unless he was dead serious about the topic in question. In fact, when he does use long words it's quite important that people listen to them.

"Fine, I'll go to the Nature Park a few miles off, will that do?" Eric nodded in agreement.

The Author stalked off down the opposite road, sudden realization hit him.

"Can you watch the kids while I'm gone? And tell Alice where I went as well!" he yelled up the stone clad road. Eric yelled a reply; The Author knew what it would be anyway. It's not like Eric had a choice about this situation.

Trudging up the path to the park did not take long, half an hour at the most. The park itself was quite inspiring by its own, being that creatures resided in the various bushes of the many clearing throughout the dense trees which towered over any building. The Author found a path that seemed safe enough and walked into the unknown. He had been there a few times before, but had always had one of the maps that showed routes, and places of interest in the forest.

The Author had been searching for almost forty minutes looking for the ancient tree that Eric had described. None had, so far, matched the description.

The Author was exhausted, he had been walking for over an hour and a half now, and he was not one of the fittest fiddles that were built. So, he found a large tree that looked stable enough to lean against. The bark felt potholed against his back. Most old trees, he knew, where like this. He jumped away from the tree to look at the roots. They were gnarled, the roots themselves were entwined with each other, causing the effect of unendingness.

He had found the tree.

...

**so, thoughts anyone?**


End file.
